Breaking Protocol
by threesquares
Summary: Tag for The Pain in the Heart. What if, after barging into Booth's bathroom and leaving, Brennan finds she has more to say, and turns back.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Bones.

A/N: Remember, during the 100th, Sweets says something like "You SLEPT together?" and Booth and Brennan never actually say "No." I have always wondered, as I rewatch eps 1-99, when did it happen? In Washington State? In a circus trailer? Or maybe...after Booth turns out to be alive after taking a bullet meant for Brennan.

Born of a conversation with dharmamonkey on Twitter, I wrote this. She was a gloriously involved and generous beta to this story and is responsible for Booth having a voice, not to mention the title. Thank you, Monkey.

Also note that Brennan refers to hitting Booth (and Booth refers to it back). Early in the episode, in public, Brennan clocks Booth with a right hook because he pretended to be dead. Just in case someone who doesn't watch the show is reading this, I wanted you to know that this story is not into S&M. And of course, we should all use our words. I hope you like mine.

Best wishes, Michele

* * *

I drop the needle back onto the record, slide the pocket door shut behind me with a flourish, and briskly exit Booth's apartment, pleased with my control. Once in the hallway, the door closed, lock snapped into place behind me, my bravado drains away.

And bravado it is, I know. Booth's death two weeks ago—_how is it possible that this is a phrase that has become part of my lexicon?_—has shaken me, I must admit. We are partners, and I have known from the beginning that we share an animal interest in one another. He smells right to me; his voice has the right timbre and pitch; his body is the right size and shape.

Occasionally, I have gone out on a date with a man whom I had never previously met in person. Usually, we arrange our date online or by phone through a colleague or acquaintance. In a preponderance of cases, these dates do not lead to other dates, a somewhat counterintuitive circumstance given the number of characteristics we usually share, from basic physical compatibility to interests, education, and political persuasion. I have noticed, however, that if I ask a man out in person, or if he asks me, then usually we have on average 2.3 further dates, the non-integer value being a result not only of varying numbers of dates with each man but also those two times I walked out in the middle.

I understand, therefore, as a result of my own experience, how powerful a motivator basic animal attraction is, as well as how mutual respect and friendship can amplify it. In the aftermath of my confrontation with Booth in his bathroom, I find myself overwhelmed by the feelings I have worked so hard to keep at bay this last week.

I push myself off the wall by Booth's door where I have been leaning. I'm cold and a little stiff and I know I have been there for some time. I need to get away before I give in and go back. The relief of his being alive and the thrill I feel at confronting him has made me dizzy, almost giddy. If I turn back now, in under a minute I could be back in that bathroom.

Maybe he is finished in the bathtub. Maybe he has dried off and is brushing his teeth for bed and is wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. I turn back toward him and use the key in the lock again.

"Bones!" he coughed. "What the hell? Shit. Again?" His vowels and consonants are distorted by a mouth full of minty foam, although he is clothed in sweatpants. "You can't just keep barging in on me in my own bathroom!" He turns toward the sink, spits, and rinses his mouth quickly. "I told you I would find out tomorrow why you weren't told that I wasn't dead." His voice is aggrieved and frustrated but he doesn't really seem upset.

"Booth," I say. "I realized that I still don't believe that you are alive."

"What?" Confused, he wipes his hands on a hand towel and turns, the fresh bandage on his chest the catalyst for the adrenaline and sadness and hate and powerlessness and fear I feel suddenly surging inside. My stomach cramps and my knees almost buckle but don't, and I somehow manage to hold myself upright and breathe carefully, slowly, through my nose. Booth sees something, some part of my pain, or he can just tell something's wrong. He takes a step into me, slowly, and grips my shoulders.

"Bones?" he says. "You okay?"

My eyes are on the bandage; my ears hear the sounds of a bar, music, a woman's voice, a gunshot, my own desperate pleading. Caught by my sense memories, I hear Booth as if from far away and I hear something else as well: a dry coughing sound, harsh and percussive. I am falling, falling down a dark well with cold smooth sides that serve as an echo chamber for the barking that has metamorphosed into piteous keening.

Suddenly, Booth's voice is loud in my ear, cutting through the dark.

"Bones!" he cajoles. "Come back. It's okay." I feel his hands, his warm hands on my shoulders and it is as if I have no other body parts, just shoulders. I'm real only where he is touching me. And I must have said something because Booth says, "Okay, Bones, okay. I'm touching you. I won't let go." I feel his hands rubbing jerkily over my arms, pulling me into a hug, rubbing my back. "Oh, baby," he whispers, so faint that I'm sure he doesn't want me to hear. "I've got you. It's gonna be okay. Shhhhh."

My face is pressed against the heat of his chest; his hands are smoothing up and down my back, over and over. I don't know how to go on from here. My face is dry, my laments still relatively private. I think vaguely that I should go, should disentangle myself and apologize and pull myself together and go, just go. But I can't. Not yet. My throat hurts and his arms feel so safe.

"Are you really alive?" I say, into his chest.

"Yeah, Bones, I really am. I really am." He pulls back, but only his head. His body stays glued to mine and his hands continue their rhythmic stroking. I can feel him looking down at me, willing me to raise my head but I don't. I stay very still, hoping that he will understand. He drops a chaste kiss into my hair and then hugs me even closer, his big warm hand coming to rest on the back of my head, stroking my hair and pressing me deeper into his chest.

This is not something that partners do. Is it? I'm sure it's not, but Booth and I have always been unconventional. Maybe this is just...us. It doesn't have to mean anything or lead to anything. I just...need...to know that he's really alive. I've never been as alone as these last weeks. Never. This realization has been coming, I can tell, but it is only now, pressed up against my...partner, that I can take it in. I resist further exploration but allow myself to accept the new information. Booth's death made me alone. Therefore, Booth being alive means I am not alone.

"You owe me." I say, my voice low and scratchy.

"What, Bones?" Booth says gently into my hair.

My hands slip around him, settling low on his back, smoothing and stroking small circles there. I am now aware of other parts of his body, although he is still relaxed and calm, sighing when he feels my hands and shifting to settle me more closely against him. I can feel the rise and fall as he breathes, the press of our thighs. I am aware of the location of his feet, on either side of mine, and the way that his breathing stirs my hair. The soft bulk of his cock and balls are fit tight against me and my breasts feel increasingly tight against his smooth chest.

"You owe me." I say again.

"Come on, Bones..." he chides gently. "I told you I would find out why you weren't told. And I will, okay? It's not my fault." His voice is soft and cajoling. I would smile but I really don't feel like smiling. I feel like hitting or crying or fucking.

"What?" Booth's voices sounds strangled, and he pulls back again. This time, I look up, adjusting to the fact that I said it out loud.

"That's right, Booth," I say. "You heard me. I don't feel like smiling or laughing. You can't make me laugh about this. You can't charm me into forgiving you. I don't care how it happened, and I don't care about protocol or the goddamn rules. You should have told me. You owe me. So, yes, that's right—what I feel like doing is crying, hitting, or fucking."

His face should be comical in its shock. He should be surprised or outraged and maybe he is, but that is not what he shows me. Instead, Booth does what he always does. He tries to give me what I need.

His face closes down. At best, he looks mildly inquisitive. But his eyes search mine, and as I have felt on so many other occasions, it seems to me that Booth can see straight into me, that I am transparent to him or more, like I come in a code that only he can read. What he sees there makes his eyes bright. Tears? Arousal?

His voice, when it comes, is low and husky. It sends a thrill of sexual desire through my body. "How about all three, Bones? If I owe you—and I'm not saying I do—if I owe you, then I pay my debts." He reaches for my hand and grasps it, moving it to rest against his face, opening me so that my palm rests against his left cheek. His eyes gaze into mine and his expression is soft, but I don't know what it means.

"You hit me earlier today," he says He strokes his own skin with my hand in the spot where I hit him. "Do you want to hit me again?" He turns his face into my palm and kisses me there and then rests against it again, closing his eyes. For a moment, there is only the sound of his breathing, the phantom kiss burning on my palm, the vulnerability of his shuttered eyes and slackened features. I rub my thumb lightly against his cheekbone. "No." I breathe out, almost inaudible. "No." I say, louder.

He doesn't open his eyes but moves in even closer, reeling me in to his body, so that his lips come to rest lightly against my forehead. He begins placing kisses, tiny, soft, just barely open mouthed kisses along my hairline, down my face, on my ear, under my jaw. He lingers here, in this space, breathing me in, his kisses firmer, wetter, hungrier. I swear he actually licks behind my ear, kissing up the wetness and groaning in arousal.

Then he starts to talk to me again.

"Bones," he whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry you were scared." He is whispering into my ear between kisses. "Bones. I'm sorry you were alone. I was alone too." And now he's almost to my mouth. He stops, his mouth hovering directly over mine, breath coming fast and sweet, eyes glued on my lips while mine are locked on his eyes, his face. His tongue comes out and wets his lips and I shudder a little, waiting for the first taste of him. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he says. And then his mouth is on mine and it tastes like ambrosia, like the nectar of the gods. He is heat and joy and sex and _life_.

I open my mouth on his, taste his skin and beard on my lips, press hard wet kisses along his jaw and neck until he moans. I feel that Booth is holding back, waiting for me, and I don't want that. I want to know he is alive. I want his weight on top of me, holding me down until I can't breathe. Because I haven't been able to breathe for weeks and maybe, maybe, if I have him on me, in me, when we are done, I will be released.

I thread my hand through his hair and pull, separating us. "Don't fuck around, Booth," I say. "You know what I want, and if you really are sorry, you'll give it to me." I pull him towards me again, kissing him brutally, making it hurt, and he meets my fierceness with his own. I am angry now, out of control. He is not, but he is a man, and for right now, _my_ man, and I've pushed him to the point that his civilized veneer cracks. His big hands grip my hips, leaving bruises, and he pushes me until my back is against the wall. He bears down on me, his narrow hips and strong thighs pinning me to the wall, and I moan. He pulls up my shirt and frees my breasts from my bra with a flick of his talented fingers, those same fingers rolling my nipples hard while his palms mold and squeeze my breasts.

"You have the best fucking tits," he says and I catch his mouth again, letting him take me even higher with his mouth and his hands and his cock, now long and hard and hot, even through his pants. His pants. I can't stand it anymore and I pull away from him to push his sweatpants down his legs, another spurt of wetness dampening my underwear further as I see his cock jutting toward me. He is watching me with predatory eyes, hands and mouth just barely leashed, letting me look my fill, making me aware that he believes that he is in control. I step back one step, cautiously, crouching a little, and he tenses, as if he will grab me before I can flee. Instead, I use my new space to straighten and toe my shoes off, pull my shirt over my head, drop my unlatched bra to the floor, slide my slacks down my thighs, and hook my fingers into my panties. I drag them down and then we are naked together.

I step into him and reach between his legs, cupping his balls with my right hand, stroking and manipulating them to the sound of his quiet moan. I use both hands to caress the soft skin between and at the top of his thighs; he jumps every time I get close to the base of his dick. I am pushing him high, fast, and I sink to my knees and take him higher, faster, my mouth sucking on the end of his cock, his hand gripping my hair, his fingers pressing into my scalp as his cock bucks into my mouth. Groaning, he pushes me back, his cock falling away from my mouth as he pulls me up and against him, sliding his fingers between my legs, stroking into me without warning and sucking at my mouth as he pumps into me with one, two fingers.

"Christ, you're soaked," he moans as his mouth migrates back my breasts again, pulling strongly. His fingers sliding inside of me, his thumb presses on my clit, stroking back and forth at the base, the way I like it. How does he know me? "You like that, Bones?" My body shudders and bows. "Bones, come, babe. I want to see you fall apart. If you come for me, I'll fuck you—" My orgasm rips through me, raising me up on my toes and thrusting me backward, and his big hands are there to catch me. He lifts me and we are through the door, in his bedroom, and suddenly I am on the bed and he is crawling over me.

"Bones." Booth says my name as if he knows me and wants me. His hands stretch my arms over my head and his eyes are deep pools of uncompromising desire and acceptance. He bends his head and again, suckles strongly at my breasts, using his whole mouth, pulling hard, squeezing my nipples just short of the point of pain. All my despair rises up in me and is beaten back by his fierceness; I buck and writhe beneath him, my nails digging into his ass, and in one stroke, his cock pierces me and his weight keeps me anchored to the bed. This, this, this is what I wanted. I flex below him, creating the delicious friction. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead and his eyes are shut. He's trying to keep his control, but I am not in control and for some reason it enrages me that he is allowed to be. This time, on the downstroke, I push him off of me, scooting away from underneath him.

"No, Booth," I say. "Not you, me. I get to say—"

"Bones, come here, baby," he says, something deliberately soothing in the tone of his voice even as it sounds low and ragged on the edges.

I turn away from him, presenting him with my back, my ass arched high as I grab onto his headboard. Booth surges forward again, taking me from behind. I cry out in relief and pleasure and triumph because he is no longer steady in his strokes, and his hands reach around to latch onto my breasts as he pumps wildly into me. He is truly beyond words now and is grunting into my shoulder, kissing and licking and biting anywhere he can reach. One of his hands is pinching my nipple even as the other reaches between my legs and I scream a little when he touches his fingers to the place where his cock is thrusting. He gathers my moisture and slides his finger up and down my clit. I arch up, my head dropping between my arms and I let my climax wash over me even as I hear him call my name one last time and pump his own stunning release into my convulsing body. As soon as the final tremors subside, his cock slips free and Booth and I just gasp for breath, his hands bracketing mine on the headboard we both are gripping. Our sweaty bodies are spooned together, his cheek pressed between my shoulder blades, one hand slipping off the headboard to wrap around my body, press against my belly.

My knees throb a little and I let myself drop to the bed below him, breaking the hold of Booth's arm. I shift and wiggle until I am laying on my back below him, head on his pillow, looking up at him, still curved above me.

"Just one more thing, Booth," I say. "Please." His arms still braced on the headboard, his eyes fly open to look down at me. His body, his beautiful body, glistens with sweat and his breathing is ragged. "Come here, please. Lay down on me."

"Bones, I'll crush you—"

"Booth, you won't. Please."

He lays down carefully and when I don't object, allows his full weight to rest on me. My breaths come short and constricted, but the air I get feels honest. There is actual weight on me, bearing down, preventing me from inhaling freely. I fight for each breath that I take and feel the victory of honest effort with every one I draw. To get the most air, I have to synchronize my breaths with his, me breathing in when he is breathing out. It is surprisingly intimate and I feel a stirring in my body for him again.

"Thank you," I say and shift slightly. He takes this as a signal and rolls over to my side. I sit up, feeling shaky and weak.

"Bones?" Booth crawls to join me on the side of the bed, our hips touching. He reaches out a tentative hand and strokes once down my spinal column. His hand settles at my waist and tries to pull me toward him, presumably for a hug or for post-coital snuggling. I pull away, standing on wobbly legs and avoiding his gaze.

"No," I say, my voice shaking a little. "No, I don't want that. I just...I just...needed proof. Evidence."

"Bones," he says, standing up and walking towards me. I can hear the scolding tone in his voice even though I refuse to look at him. When I still don't turn to meet his eyes, he says again, "Bones. Look at me, damn it."

His eyes are fierce and...hurt? I respond to that hurt, I must answer him, even as the need to leave becomes an urgent pulse in my veins.

"Booth, I slept in this bed when you were gone, the first three nights. I wasn't going to go to your funeral." My voice breaks and my self-control slips. "I don't think I can talk about this. Not right now. I can't stay here. Not right now."

He looks at me blankly, clearly stunned by what I just confessed. "You...wait, you..." He shakes his head, struggling to comprehend what he has heard. "You slept here?" he asks. "I mean, you—when you thought I was dead, you came here and you slept in my bed? Here?" He gestures at the bed.

For a minute he stands there, staring at the tangled, sweat-creased sheets as if they are now somehow alien to him. His silence unnerves me, and I find myself relieved when he takes a long, deep breath and begins to speak again.

"Look, Bones," he says, shifting his jaw forward as I see him trying to rein in his own emotions. "This—" He means the sex we just had. "This isn't the kind of evidence that proves anything. You knew that you missed me before we had sex. I knew that I missed you before we had sex. I didn't know you thought I was dead but if I had, I would have called. No, if I could have, I would have just come over and told you and held you and told you I was sorry for worrying you—"

"Stop!" I shout. "No, Booth, no." I can hear the tears in my voice and I no longer have any desire to cry. "I...I...I don't want you to say that. I don't...I can't...just no. All right? Stop." I am shivering a little and my eyes have dropped from his are fixed on a point on his chest.

Booth sighs. "Okay, Bones. Okay." He takes my left hand in his and gently chafes it between his. "You sure you don't...why don't you just..." He leans over and rests his cheek against mine briefly before placing a warm kiss on my cheek, letting his lips drift down my face along my jaw. When I place my palms on his chest and push slightly, he stops, his lips still resting on my face, still breathing in my skin.

"Just—come on, Bones, please..."

I stand up, away from him and toward the bathroom for my clothes. Booth doesn't follow me right away and I'm pulling my shirt over my head when he finally does. He moves in close, pulling me into a hug. It feels like a guy hug, like our kind of hug, so I allow it, but I don't return it, don't sink into him. He tries one more time.

"Bones?"

He lifts his hand and strokes my cheek. His low voice reverberates through my body, plucking notes and strumming chords of want and recognition. I hear tenderness in the way he says my name, and I steel myself to impassivity.

"You hit me," he says. "We fucked. Don't you want to cry?"

For the first time since I left the bed, I choose to raise my eyes to meet his gaze. "No," I say. "No, Booth, I don't." It feels wrong to leave, like violating protocol—no midnight snack, no morning quickie, no goodbye kiss—but I do.

"Bones, please..." he implores.

Laying in my own bed half an hour later, I know that we won't speak of this again. At least not now. I welcome the familiar feeling of wanting Booth but not being allowed to touch. I let the knowledge of his vitality settle in my bones, and finally, for the first night in weeks, I fall asleep easily and only wake once, when the morning sunlight touches my face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Alternate Ending to Original O/S**

A/N: I don't know. I just couldn't let it go. First, I am in the Brennan and Booth should always get together camp. I can't believe I wrote a fic in which they didn't get together. It goes against the grain, let me tell you. Also, while I stand by my original story and I think that Brennan would be angry enough, hurt enough to leave in the way she did, I also think that it is possible that she...well, didn't leave the way that she did. In this alternate ending, picking up close to the end of the original O/S, they do not get together but things are not so...grim. I hope you like it. I am procrastinating and shouldn't be writing, but again, I just couldn't let it go. Best, Michele

* * *

Booth sighs. "Okay, Bones. Okay." He takes my left hand and gently chafes it between his. "You sure you don't...why don't you just..." He leans over and rests his cheek against mine briefly before placing a warm kiss on my cheek, letting his lips drift down my face along my jaw. When I place my palms on his chest and push slightly, he stops, his lips still resting on my face, still breathing in my skin.

"Just—come on, Bones, _please_..."

I stand up, away from him and toward the bathroom for my clothes. Booth doesn't follow me right away and I'm pulling my shirt over my head when he finally does. He moves in close, pulling me into a hug. It feels like a guy hug, like our kind of hug, so I allow it, but I don't return it, don't sink into him. He tries one more time.

"Bones?" He lifts his hand and strokes my cheek. His low voice reverberates through my body, plucking notes and strumming chords of want and recognition. I hear tenderness in the way he says my name, and I steel myself to impassivity.

"You hit me," he says. "We fucked. Don't you want to cry?"

For the first time since I left the bed, I choose to raise my eyes to meet his gaze. "No," I say. "No, Booth, I don't." It feels wrong to leave, like violating protocol—no midnight snack, no morning quickie, no goodbye kiss—but I do. I walk away from him, from Booth. My partner. As I get closer to the door, I experience a strange sense of time slowing down. I think I am still moving but the passageway to the living room doesn't seem to be getting any closer. Like an event horizon, like trying to reach beyond the edge of a gravitational field. Booth's whisper sounds loud in the stillness.

"Bones, _please_..." he implores.

I seem to have stopped, now, and find myself gazing at the floor, listening. I am not walking any more but I have not turned around either. All I know is that I cannot ignore his voice. I wait, certain of nothing. I hear Booth take a deep breath and exhale shakily.

"Bones..." his voice is still low, but no longer a whisper, "Stay." My head jerks up and I look toward the door again.

"No!" He says desperately, and then, quickly, calmer, "No, don't leave, just...just...just listen, Bones. Just listen. I'll stay right here." I can hear the rustle of the comforter as he sits on the edge of the bed. "I am...suggesting, offering you a place to stay tonight. I would like you to stay, just tonight, even if you never stay again, even if this is...all. I would like to know where you are tonight. I just need to know that you are okay. Can you stay with me, just for right now, just tonight? Please?"

Booth pleading with me is so unusual that I turn so that I can see his face. My own must be...I don't know, but something equally unusual because I can see Booth's eyes widen as they meet my own, and his hands slip to the edge of the bed, ready to push him to standing. He sees my eyes flick to his hands, however, and his hands unclench, his body relaxing back down again.

"Bones? What if..." he tries a little smile, one of those smiles people seem to use when they are trying to get beyond a truly awkward moment in a conversation. It is something I've never bothered to learn since just continuing on with directness gets me to the same place, even if usually people are irritated with it for some reason. "...what if you just stay here tonight? No strings, just us here together. You...you can pick your side." Even in the dim light, his face is illuminated to me. It's easy to fill in his lopsided smile, the glint in his eyes, the dimple on his cheek that I know is there.

I don't know what to say, but something is loosening in my chest. I can breathe better than before I came here tonight, and the nausea is gone. My head hurts, but that happens when I try not to cry. Booth sits and waits, patiently. He's one of the most impatient people I know, always in a hurry, always moving, restless and driven. But right now he is calm and still and it is this, more than anything, that intrigues me. The feeling of my mind engaging is such a relief that it must show. Booth smiles gently at me.

"So, Bones? What do you say?" He stands easily but doesn't move toward me. "Which side do you like to sleep on?" He looks confused suddenly and looks over his shoulder at the bed. I realize that he is remembering that I confessed to sleeping here when he was...away..._no_, call it what it _is_: when he was dead. I walk around to the other side of the bed, unbutton my slacks, slip them off, and drape them over the chair by the window. I can sense Booth coming up behind me and I turn quickly. He's not too close, but close enough to hand me a t-shirt, a black FBI one. I have always wanted to wear one of these.

"Thanks." My voice says.

"Sure." He turns and makes a show of taking off his watch, placing it on his dresser, and checking the alarm clock. I quickly strip off my shirt and replace it with his. I walk to my side of the bed and slide in. Booth fiddles with the clock a little longer but then slips under the covers on his side too.

"Warm enough?" he says.

I like the weight of blankets on me and am often cold. "Could I have another blanket, please?"

"Sure, Bones, sure." He's happy to be able to do something; Booth always likes it when there is something to do. I feel the added weight of bedding on my body and feel something soft-chenille?-tucked under my chin. Booth smooths the blanket over me, almost like he is rubbing my back, and for a long instant, I can feel the weight and warmth of his hand pressing down.

Before I can react, he has moved away again, slipped into his side of the bed again. I feel his hand reach out and touch my shoulder under the covers. I know he is offering something...a shoulder, an arm, but I have reached my limit. I snuggle down into the blankets, half on my stomach, one leg extended, the other bent, and just breathe in the scent of him on the pillow. He moves his hand but instead of taking it away, he just rests it in the small of my back, a comforting weight. It is like he is holding me down, keeping me from flying away. Again, I focus on breathing, and with a hitch in my breath I cannot repress, I finally slip into sleep.

Hours later, I wake in the night, hot and scared. I'm breathing fast and on the verge of sobbing. I am...where? Where am I? I'm in Booth's bed. I'm in Booth's bed and Booth is...before I can think it, I feel his hand on my arm. I jump and scream a little, turning to push and hit at the person holding me.

"Bones! Bones, it's me, it's me, it's okay, Bones, it's okay baby it's ok you're safe I'm alive it's ok." He only holds my hands long enough to stop me from hitting him, and releases them as soon as possible, sensitive to the possibility of my feeling trapped, but I am only just released from the nightmare trap I was in and I fling myself onto him. "Oh god, Bones, oh god baby it's ok it's going to be ok." His words wrap me in a world all their own, one where I am not alone, where Booth is there. His arms pull me into him and I grip him and press my face hard into his chest as I gasp for air and begin to sob. I cry great wracking sobs of grief and bitter loss and screaming hatred and control ripped from my greedy hands and _angry angry angry sad._

Booth strokes my back through my shirt and presses his own face into the join of my neck as I cry into his chest. I feel him flip the extra blanket off onto the floor and feel a distant relief at the lighter load, the cooler space. I vaguely think that he may be crying too, and I'm not sure where all the wetness is coming from and I don't have a lot of attention to spare. I cry until I am empty and shuddering, my breath hitching and stuttering in my chest. I feel Booth's chest stretch and bend and then there is a tissue in my hand and I wipe my runny nose. Clutching the tissue in my hand, I try to sit up.

"Nah, Bones. Come on, Bones. Just lie down, babe. C'mon. C'mon over here." He lies down and pulls me into the lee of his body. His strong arm is wrapped around me and my body fits into his. As my breathing quiets further and sleep rises up over me again, I think I feel the press of his lips against my jaw.

When I wake, Booth is gone. Before I can wonder, though, I hear water running, stopping, and then footsteps padding toward the bed. I open my eyes slowly and realize my head is pounding. And then his hand is in front of me with a glass of cold water, a couple of white tablets. I sit up and drink. When Booth has taken the empty glass and placed it on the bedside table, he lays me back down and strokes my hair. I lay on my back, headache pulsing painfully behind my eyes, and he rakes his fingernails across my scalp, as far back as he can reach before my head meets his pillow. Over and over he strokes my hair until, sometime later, I start to feel better, more relaxed, less pain. I am more aware of the world outside of my body. I realize that I can smell morning on Booth; he has showered and shaved and has on clean clothes. Booth stops stroking my hair and before I can protest, he takes my hand and starts rubbing along the webs of my fingers and pressing his thumb in circles on my palm. The reassuring smell of shaving cream and soap and...Booth, combined with the pressure of his strong fingers, is so soothing. The pain retreats further. Finally, I flip my hand over and squeeze his, opening my eyes.

"Booth?" My voice sounds strangely normal, not at all the voice of a woman who..._what_? I'm not sure how to characterize myself right now.

"Yeah, Bones?" His brown eyes are calm and...tired looking.

"Didn't you...didn't you sleep last night?"

"I'm okay, Bones. How are you feeling?" He reaches out and holds my face, inspecting me.

I slap his hand away, "Stop, Booth. I'm fine. I'm fine. I-"

Booth interrupts me, "It's ok, Bones, you don't have to say anything."

"No, I do. I...well, thank you. Thank you for letting me stay here last night." It's inadequate, probably, but Booth looks relieved so maybe it's all right.

"Sure, Bones. No problem. Listen, I called into work, let them know I'd be in a little later than usual. I thought, maybe, that you'd want to go to breakfast at the diner? I've showered already, but I'll give you the room and you can get cleaned up?"

I can see he is making an effort to make everything as normal as possible for me and I venture a smile. "Yes. That would be...nice." Booth rises and pads to the door, barefoot still despite being dressed. He throws me a glance over his shoulder, "See ya when you're ready, Bones."

I watch him go, give myself a minute to remember his body poised above mine, the taste of his mouth, so long resisted, and the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips. Then, I rise and shower and join him in the living room, where he is waiting, because Booth is always willing to wait for me whether it is the hours at a crime scene while I gather evidence or while I finish my lunch or grab my coat. I think again about how tired he looked this morning, like he hadn't slept. I remember that he was awake when I woke from my nightmare.

"Booth, did you stay up all night?" I ask bluntly.

He turns back to me from the door, where he is putting on his coat and grabbing his keys. He smiles, cocky. "What do you think, Bones?"

"I don't know, Booth, or I wouldn't have asked." I answer back, not entirely sorry that he didn't answer my question.

"Well, you'll just have to wonder, Bones," he says as he ushers me out the door, locking it behind him, "I'm not telling. C'mon, Bones...we've got pancakes to eat, and bacon too. Mmm, mmm, you have to order your own bacon if you want some, Bones, because I am eating ALL mine today."

"Booth! You know I don't eat bacon. And you shouldn't eat it either. It is terrible for you, not only because of its high fat content but also the sodium nitrite added as a preservative has been found to be detrimental to a healthy lifestyle in a number of ways."

"But Bones, it is so good. Definitely one of God's foods." I listen to him carry on and reach out to him before we exit the building, initiating a hug. He hugs me close-the smell of his overcoat will stay with me the rest of the day-and kisses my head. I lift my head and press a firm, chaste kiss on his mouth. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. With one last squeeze of my hand, Booth drags me with him into the world outside. The sun is up. Booth is alive. I'm going to have breakfast at the diner.


End file.
